The Oncoming Tempest
by Taattosbt
Summary: Theatre continues even in the worst of circumstances. Eleven young actors respond to Bane's storm with one of their own - a production of The Tempest. They did not expect him to attend a performance.
1. Act 1 Scene 1

He'd managed to slip in unnoticed.[i]

"_Take this sinking boat"__**[ii]**_

Onstage there was music. An actor strummed gently on a guitar. An actress sang beside him, softly but somehow filling the lobby of the ruined bank-turned-theater. Odd. His informant said the play began at 2:00. Sedition could hardly be expected to keep time, he supposed.

"_And point it home"_

He marveled at the ability of youth and beauty to draw the eye. It was a rare day indeed when the masked warlord of Gotham could stand invisible in a crowd. Even if he was lurking in the shadows at the back.

"_We've still got time."_

He had to admit his eyes were drawn as well. The girl reminded him of someone.

"_Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice. You've made it now._"

Talia. She looked like a young Talia. Not exactly, her hair was too light brown, her face not quite right. It was her eyes, he decided. They looked like Talia's just as she made the climb. Hope. Fear. Love. But one sees in ingénues what one wants.

"_Falling slowly. Sing your melody._"

The boy shook his gold bangs from his eyes and bent back over the guitar, slowly shifting his weight back and heading for the left most of the three curtains that marked the entrances and exits. Still singing, the girl followed suit with the right most curtain.

"_I'll sing along_"

The song ended and the pair disappeared off-stage. The crowd applauded, the sound echoing off the marble and multiplying ten-fold. He clapped as well, albeit a little later than all the others. This was a new experience for him. He was not accustomed to plays and had not expected to see one in his final five months of life. Then again, he had not expected The Arts to be Gotham's last hold-out of resistance. There were worse ways to spend two hours.

"Boatswain!"

An actor ran through the center curtain like a bat out of Hell. More new experiences. He hadn't been startled in some time.

"Here master! What Cheer?"

They were swarming out now, men and women in rag-tag costumes, running around, yelling, and pulling at ropes hanging from pillars and attached to chairs. They wove between the audience members that surrounded them as they yelled their lines and elicited help in "steering" their "ship."

"What care these roarers for the name of King?"

He liked that line. It was getting difficult to keep them all straight. He clumped the sailors in one group in his mind. There were only three of them. The African American youth with the crown appeared to be the aforementioned King. The blond musician, his hands now empty of their instrument, was his son and a prince. There were three others who he labeled just that—"other nobility"—and a young woman dressed as an old man. Not Talia. A different one.

"All lost, to prayers, to prayers, all lost."

Why did the sailors have all the best lines? And where was that magician his spy had gone on about? Perhaps he had the wrong play. That was a silly thought. How many plays could there be in Gotham? Not old Gotham. His Gotham.

"Let's all sink with the King!"

"Let's take leave of him!"

The Other Nobility ran for the exits. The old-young man-woman was left alone in stillness and quiet. It was jarring. Uncomfortable. To have pandemonium and then nothing. It was a relief when he—the warlord decided to suspend his disbelief and accept the gender the actress projected—finally spoke.

"Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea, for an acre of barren ground_:_ long heath, brown firs, anything. The wills above be done, but I would fain die a dry death."

He staggered for a side exit, cane in hand, leaving true stillness behind him. The ropes were scattered across the stage. Whatever ship the actors had created it was most definitely wrecked.

The moment only lasted a breath before the curtains stirred once again. The center curtain parted to reveal—. His heart skipped a beat. That couldn't be right. What was he seeing?

Bane stared at himself on stage.

* * *

[i] The characters mentioned in this story belong to Christopher Nolan and . No profit is made off their use herein.

[ii] Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova, "Falling Slowly" from the album _Music from the Motion Picture Once_released 2007.

All quotes from _The Tempest_ are taken from First Folio Facsimiles on Internet Shakespeare Editions ( . ). The author has modernized the spelling, grammar, and formatting.


	2. Act 1 Scene 2

Bane barely noticed when the one who looked like Talia hurried on, her brow furrowed and eyes distant.

"If by your art, my dearest father"

Ra's was never dear.

His twin stood silent at the entrance. He could not tear his gaze from the other man. He blinked and cleared his head. That wasn't him. The figure on stage wore no mask. How could he have missed that?

"Oh, I have suffered with those I saw suffer."

That was Talia, all right. She'd never admit it, though.

He looked again at the Not-him. It was the coat, he decided. And the vest. And the way the actor held himself. Straight backed yet relaxed, hands resting on his chest, eyes intense. The boy was much smaller than the man he counterfeited, yet somehow his stance alone commanded the entire room. He finally spoke.

"Be collected. No more amazement. Tell your piteous heart, there's no harm done."

The boy stared right at him. Bane's breath caught in his throat once more as he realized two things. One, the line was to him. The boy's unyielding eye contact made that much clear. Two, the boy was not a boy. Her hair was pulled back and the coat hid her breasts and hips, but the actor Bane had mistaken for himself was an actress. The timbre of her voice gave her away.

His understanding must have shown as she gave a small smile. He nodded. Her gaze turned to Talia.

"No harm. I have done nothing but in care of thee."

Bane decided he liked these characters. He would do anything for the real Talia. Not that Not-him or Fake-Talia could have known that.

The play continued.

Or rather the Not-him's speech continued. She talked and talked. The scene was a barrage of back-story that had even his brilliant mind scrambling to keep up.

"Nor that I am more better than Prospero, master of a full poor cell, and thy no greater father."

So Not-him was named Prospero. And Prospero was Fake-Talia's father. Damn. He had been hoping for another relationship.

"Thou had'st, and more Miranda. But how is it that this lives in thy mind? If thou rememberest ought ere thou cam'st here,"

Miranda. What a coincidence. And a long memory too. This Miranda character really was Talia.

"I should sin to think but nobly of my grand-mother. Good wombs have born bad sons."

Miranda pointed to a man seated in the front row along the left half of the stage as she said this. The audience laughed and her victim pretended a scowl.

"By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune (now my dear lady) hath mine enemies brought to this shore."

Prospero finished his speech. A ship full of the people who had banished Prospero just happened to be floating by. That seemed rather far-fetched. Then again, this was a world populated by magicians, young women dressed like old men, and Talia doppelgangers. He let it slide and took stock of the entire, absurd situation.

Prospero was a Duke, but he was banished by his younger brother who had usurped the throne while Prospero was squirrelled away in the library studying to become a sorcerer. The evil brother had sworn fealty to the more powerful state of Naples in order to ensure his position. Prospero and Miranda had been set to sea with nothing but some provisions afforded by a kind old lord Gonzalo.

Gonzalo. That rang a bell. The old-young man-woman from before had been called Gonzalo. Good. Gonzalo as shorter than "old-young man-woman."

All in all it was pretty fantastical. He was thankful. He'd enough of eerie resemblances for one afternoon. None of that had to do with him, or the league, or Talia.

Except for the banishment. He understood the pain of that. From the way Prospero spoke he/she understood it as well. No. That couldn't be. She was probably some socialite-heiress with a bizarre death wish and a penchant for Shakespeare. She had nothing to do with him.

"Here cease more questions. Thou art inclined to sleep."

And Miranda promptly fell asleep. He chuckled, remembering. What Ra's wouldn't have given for a sleep spell like that. Talia was not as obedient as this Miranda.

"Approach, my Ariel. Come."

Barsad skipped on stage.

There were only so many times a jaw could drop in a single day. Bane felt sure he was reaching his limit.

Barsad skipped? No. It was the costume again. But the young man did look something like his lieutenant. Unruly brown hair, clear blue eyes. Where did these actors come from?

"Now in the waste, the deck, in every cabin, I flamed amazement, sometime I'd divide and burn in many places."

Ariel was a spirit and Prospero's servant, parallel to himself and the Serbian mercenary. They were doing this on purpose.

Despite the jabs, he was thoroughly enjoying the language. "The fire divides and burns in many places" was too long compared to "the fire rises," but he liked it anyway.

Unlike Prospero, Ariel did not move like his inspiration. His movements were quick and animalistic, a far cry from Bane's ever collected friend. Ariel used his red neck scarf to illustrate the story of the burning ship, the wreck, and the safe return to shore of all involved. Another difference. Bane could not recall ever seeing Barsad without that damned bandana wrapped around his neck. Even when camouflage was called for. He said it was lucky.

"And all the Devils are here."

"Why that's my spirit. But was not this nigh shore?"

"Close by, my Master."

Ariel made a "kind of" motion with his hand on "Close by." The audience laughed again. Bane joined in. Now that was something Barsad would say.

"Let me remember thee what thou hast promised, which is not yet performed me."

"How now? Moody? What is't thou can'st demand?"

"My Liberty."

"Do'st thou forget from what a torment I did free thee?"

That's when things took a turn for the political. Prospero's hand slipped into his pocket. Ariel cowered behind the legs of a watching couple. Who, in turn, shrank into the row behind them.

Prospero was holding the detonator.

Not the real one. He was sure Talia still had that one. But a very convincing replica.

"Thou best know'st what torment I did find thee in. It was a torment to lay upon the damned, which Sycorax could not again undo: it was mine art, when I arrived, and heard thee, that made gape the pine, and let thee out."

That gave him pause. Bane had been ready to step from the shadows and end the travesty, but the grain of truth in those lines stopped him. He had found Gotham limping on like a wounded animal, clinging to a lie and life at once. Now the city and its dark savior were both in Hell on Earth. In time he would release them both. Just like Prospero.

"Go make thyself like a nymph of the sea, be subject to no sight but thine, and mine: invisible."

Another laugh as Ariel pulled swimming goggles from his pocket and "made himself like a nymph of the sea" before exiting.

"Awake, dear heart awake, thou hast slept well. Awake."

Prospero knelt by his daughter and shook her lightly. In the beat before she woke Prospero caught Bane's eye again. The actress flashed him another tiny smile. Sheepish this time. As if in apology. He smiled back.

At least he tried. He'd heard of and seen "smiles that reached the eyes." Barsad when he was joking and/or drinking. Talia in that brief time between The Pit and his banishment. He hoped that's what he was doing now. The mask made him miss the strangest things.

"This island's mine by Sycorax my mother, which thou tak'st from me. When thou cam'st first thou strok'st me, and made much of me."

He had to sort things out again. Sycorax had come up in that bit with the dentonator. She was the island's former ruler. An enchantress, like Prospero banished and, like Prospero, a parent. That was her son, clad in rags with his skin painted to resemble scales, railing against the wizard for stealing his inheritance. The wheel always turns, he thought. Caliban, the son, could easily be ruling the island by the end of the play. He, after all, ruled the League of Shadows.

"I have used thee (filth as thou art_)_ with humane care, and lodged thee in mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate the honor of my child."

This was too close to home. It wasn't like that. But it was. It had been innocent, one could almost say puppy love. He'd once tried to go a little further; Talia said no; he stopped. Ra's threw him out, but that didn't stop the feeling. With three months left he doubted it ever would stop.

"_Full fathom five they father lies. Of his bones are coral made._"

Ariel/Barsad was on again, this time singing and picking at the ingénue's guitar from earlier. And behind him stumbled the ingénue making a good show of pretending the musical spirit was invisible.

"My prime request (which I do last pronounce) is _(_oh, you wonder) if you be maid, or no?"

"No wonder sir, but certainly a maid."

The lovers' meeting got another laugh. The Prince had accompanied his speech with clear, explanatory gestures, under the impression that Miranda did not understand English. It had all been very over the top. All except "oh you wonder." He'd spoken that to himself.

Oh, you wonder, Talia. He remembered the first day he'd held her. He didn't have the same feelings as now. That would have made him no better than her mother's murderers. He did remember thinking what a miracle he had in his arms. She was a spot of innocence and happiness. Hope, true hope, in a place that needed all it could get.

"They are both in either's powers: But this swift business I must uneasy make, lest too light winning make the prize light."

Prospero conferred with a father in the front row. The man's daughter huddled next to him, more than a little concerned at the nearness of the mercenary look-alike. Having confirmed his course of action Prospero once again made use of magic. He overpowered The Prince, accused him of espionage, and enforced his service, all in the name of making an easy love more complicated.

Perhaps that's what Ra's had meant by his banishment. To give him and Talia a proper story. No. His mind was running away with him again. He wondered if plays always had this effect, or if it was just him.

"Be of comfort, my father's of a better nature (sir) then he appears by speech."

Miranda furtively comforted her prince-servant. What had they called him? Ferdinand. Bane considered his mentor's character. Ra's Al Ghul had often and successfully obscured his nature, but whether it was better or worse than the metaphorical masks he wore Bane could not be sure. One could rarely be sure of anything with the League.

"Come follow. Speak not for him."

The scene ended as Prospero shepherded the lovers off. The stage was empty again, and Bane held his breath waiting and wondering how it would all play out. Suspense was not his usual color, but for now—just for now—he didn't mind.

* * *

The characters appearing in this story belong to Christopher Nolan. No profit is made of their use herein.

All quotes from _The Tempest_ are taken from First Folio Facsimiles on Internet Shakespeare Editions ( . ). The author has modernized the spelling, grammar, and formatting.


	3. Act 2 Scene 1

"Beseech you sir be merry you have cause."

The nobility tromped on stage. The King, his crown in his hands, walked to the right corner of the stage and sat, unseeing and unhearing. He gripped the circlet tightly but uncertainly, as if the plastic really were gold.

Behind him the courtiers continued, Gonzalo in his attempts at cheer, and the Other Nobility in their mocks. It wouldn't work.

"Here is everything advantageous to life."

"True, save means to live."

For the first time he wondered where they were meant to be. An island, yes, but where? How large? What did it look like? All they truly had was a bare stage in the middle of an abandoned bank. A few curtains. Some rope that had disappeared with the ship.

He filled in the scene with the desert of his home. Hard, dry, and unforgiving. That was the one advantage of The Pit: shade. Gonzalo was lying to ease his master's pain. Lies never helped.

The previous scene, however, had been green. A wide field at the foot of a mountain. Trees scattered around the edges. Covered in wild grasses. Like the place he'd been just before coming to the city. He supposed they'd changed the name after the coup.

"Is not Sir my doublet as fresh as the first day I wore it? I mean in a sort."

"That sort was well fished for."

"When I wore it at your daughter's marriage."

They were pushing too hard.

"You cram these words into mine ears, against the stomach of my sense. Would I had never

married my daughter there, for coming thence my son is lost, and (in my rate) she too."

The King finally spoke, strong voice breaking, crushed under sorrow. Bane had known it was coming. Talia had sat just like that after her mother's death. She never spoke, just stared at nothing. It was a blessing in a way. She simply had to hide her face and everyone assumed she was another of the old, broken men hiding in the corners of their prison.

She was the stronger for it. In time.

"Sir you may thank yourself for this great loss, that would not bless our Europe with your daughter."

"Prithee peace."

"You were kneeled to, and importuned otherwise by all of us. The fault's your own."

"So is the dearest of the loss."

An Other Nobility and The King nearly came to blows, but a voice came between them.

"My lord Sebastian, the truth you speak doth lack some gentleness and time to speak it in."

Gonzalo stood perfectly still upstage, far from his King and the noble called Sebastian. He did not need to move. His face was stony as his voice reverberated through the hall.

That was the nature of truth, wasn't it? Never gentle enough, never at the right time. If he hadn't held up Dent's picture and spoken those words someone else would have. Perhaps Gordon himself. He favored the shadows, but everything came to light eventually.

Still he shifted uneasily. Those words were as much for him as for men on stage.

"In the commonwealth I would (by contraries) execute all things, for no kind of traffic would I admit. No name of magistrate. Letters should not be known. Riches, poverty, and use of service, none."

Gonzalo was quickly becoming a thorn in his side. Perhaps his words in the Stadium hadn't been entirely true, but they were necessary. Gotham had to tear itself apart to bring balance back to the world.

He winced again. Gordon would say the same thing. Necessary.

"What, all so soon asleep? I wish mine eyes would (with themselves) shut up my thoughts, I find they are inclined to do so."

During his reverie, Ariel had crept back on stage. At the spirit's supernatural urging Gonzalo had ceased his stream of poignant words in favor of snoring, followed quickly by The King. It was ridiculous

"It is the quality of the climate."

Several audience members giggled at last Unnamed Nobility's quiet sarcasm. At least someone else had noticed the absurdity of the moment.

Absurdity of the moment. He was watching a play that made brazen fun of himself and his colleagues, but "the absurdity of the moment" was an excess of sleep spells. Plays.

"Say, this were death that now hath seized them, why they were no worse than now they are. There be that can rule Naples as well as he that sleeps"

His gaze hardened on the conspiring pair. Betrayal would always meet with punishment. Bruce Wayne was languishing in a cell for that very offence.

"I remember you did supplant your brother, Prospero."

"True: and look how well my garments sit upon me."

So, the nameless noble was the evil brother from the first scene. Prospero had called him Antonio. And now he planned to repeat his sins. How very like Bruce, constant in his flaws.

Wayne was not the only one who came to mind. He thought of Dr. Pavel's abortive flight to—and with—the CIA, despite his earlier promises the League. He thought of Ra's who had thrown him from the closest thing to a home he was likely to find.

"But for your conscience."

"Ay, Sir: where lies that?"

And not two months ago Bane himself had killed his supposed employer, John Daggett. That could be seen as betrayal. In the right light.

Phillip Stryver had been executed that morning. Exiled, he corrected himself. The man had stood outside and ignored Daggett's cries. Bane had not been nearly as quick as he had with Pavel. Everyone would eventually face justice. Even he.

The memory of Daggett's death came back to him, reflecting off Antonio's line like a mirror. What had he said? "You're evil." "I'm necessary evil." Is that what he would say? When—if— his time came? "It was necessary."

_"While you here do snoring lie,_

_Open-eyed Conspiracy_

_His time doth take:" _

The rhyme was tenuous. Ariel, ever the _deus ex machina_,leapt on stage just in time to wake the sleepers. Despite Antonio and Sebastian's raised swords, the fire spirit had taken the time to glance warily at the audience before singing "conspiracy" as "conspire-sigh."

"Whiles we stood here securing your repose, (even now) we heard a hollow burst of bellowing

Like bulls, or rather lions. Did it not wake you?"

"I heard nothing."

Ariel sneacked behind Sebastian as he stuttered out a cover story. As the human tumbled on the word "bull," the sprite made claws of his hands and silently roared in Sebastain's ear, inspiring the addition of "lions."

Barsad was always there just when you needed him.

"Sure it was the roar of a whole heard of lions."

Antonio's sardonic support barely convince Gonzalo.

Sometimes the soldier did not always arrive with what he expected, but it was always what he needed. Or at least it could work.

_"_Prospero, my lord, shall know what I have done. So (King) go safely on to seek thy son."

Dancing, Ariel led the unseeing nobles off.

Of course. Ferdinand was still alive. He'd almost forgotten that. Trust Barsad to say the one thing to restore hope. Shockingly, the man was an optimist.

* * *

The characters appearing in this story belong to Christopher Nolan, D.C. Comics, and Warner Brothers Pictures. No profit is made of their use herein.

All quotes from _The Tempest_ are taken from First Folio Facsimiles on Internet Shakespeare Editions ( . ). The author has modernized the spelling, grammar, and formatting.


	4. Act 2 Scene 2

"All the infections that the sun sucks up from bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall."

Caliban, the dispossessed fish monster, hauled a log onto the stage. He cursed Prospero for some time, detailing his master's harsh punishments for laziness or failure. The world was full of bad bosses, he thought. He had experience both working for and being one.

"And another storm brewing, I hear it sing in the wind:"

Yet another cross-dressed actress stumbled on stage. He recognized her as one of the swarm of sailors from the first scene. She had changed characters and traded her sou'wester for a jester's hat. And a long purple coat. Gotham had quite the cast of characters to draw from.

"If it should thunder, as it did before, I know not where to hide my head."

In Arkham, every madman's safe haven. The cardboard hospital was viewed by the criminal community more as an inn than a prison. And, as Dr. Crane was so fond of pointing out, the place had a revolving door. Doctor. Patient. Doctor. Patient. Who could tell? Jonathan wasn't the only one who danced that line. The Joker had met his wife there.

The mercenary analogue was any large city in the developing world. Hang out in a large enough city in a country with large enough problems and work was sure to come your way. It was rather like turning to the classifieds.

After his exile he'd ended up in Abidjan.

"Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows."

That was where he first met Barsad.

The Imposter-clown slipped under Caliban's blanket, much to the entertainment of the more worldly members of the audience. The monster and the jester sheltered from the rain in just the right position to be mistaken for doing something else entirely.

"This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's funeral. Well, here's my comfort."

A third actor stumbled on stage, singing off-key and swigging from an improvised flask. This one had exchanged his sailor's oilskin for a tattered tailcoat. Mercifully, he did not seem to be impersonating anyone.

Like Bane, Barsad had been none too gently let go from his previous position. He'd washed up on the Ivory Coast, crawled into a bar, and spent what little he had. Drinking was not valued in mercenaries, hence Barsad's unemployment. Despite his penniless predicament the man had not learned his lesson. But, skilled snipers were hard to find and work would eventually come his way.

Bane had been negotiating a job with a rather angry Liberian blood diamond group. It seemed their smuggler in Côte d'Ivoire had been skimming more than the acceptable amount from their merchandise. They wanted him dead. After several months of banishment, Bane wanted a job.

Which is how he met his lieutenant. Working the opposite side of the hit.

"Do you put tricks upon us?"

Like his clients, the smuggler was also aware that he lived in a city full of currently un-hired hired guns. So he went out and hired a few. Barsad picked himself up from his stool, shouldered his rifle, and took what he thought would be an easy gig.

"The spirit torments me. Oh."

Bane only half watched the bawdy comedy playing out on stage—how easily a bottle became something else when placed correctly. His mind was still in Abidjan. "The spirit torments me." Yes, that's what it had felt like.

The smuggler's protection had been easy enough to dispatch. All except one. Barsad, client in tow, had led Bane on a week-long wild goose chase through the city.

As it turned out Barsad was a sniper by trade but a grifter at heart. He and the client posed as tourists, traffic cops, and missionaries. He faked hotel reservations, meetings, train, ship, and plane tickets. Every time Bane got close Barsad and the smuggler would disappear. Their game of cat and mouse was the talk of Abidjan's underground. Those with the right connections could even place bets on the masked man and the drunken trickster.

The chase culminated in a glorified shell game of cargo ships. Bane figured out the true escape plan just in time to cut the smuggler off at Port Bouet Airport. Cornered, Barsad had made the single most important choice of his life. He'd shot the smuggler. Then turned to his opponent and asked if he could spare some of his earnings on a drink.

"Ha'st thou not dropped from heaven?"

_"_Out of the moon I do assure thee. I was the Man in the Moon, when time was."

As it happened he did. When the conversation came around to history Bane had lied through his teeth. Barsad didn't but it.. He guessed the lie and guessed Ban's connection with the League of Shadows. Confidence tricksters had to read people, he supposed. Had Bane still been working for the League he would have killed the other man on the spot. Instead he decided to work with him. Which turned out to be one of the more important decisions of Bane's own life.

He had insisted on one thing: stay sober or die. Barsad had agreed, claiming that was much simpler than any twelve step process.

A week later Bane found another job, one that required a sniper. Waste not want not.

"A most ridiculous monster, to make a wonder of a poor drunkard."

Barsad had served him loyally ever since. People made strange idols of others.

"The King, and all our company else being drowned, we will inherit here."

Upon Ra's' death, Barsad had been the first to hear of Bane's plans to rebuild the League making him the first member of the new group. Well, him and Talia.

"_Has a new master, get a new man! Freedom!_"

The actors marched of stage, singing of Caliban's perceived freedom and their plans for the island. No sooner had they left than a hand-bell rang frantically off stage. Several actors returned holding two guitars and a violin. Another musical interlude.

Bane beat a hasty retreat out of the building and down the street. He ducked into the nearest alley and slid behind a dumpster. He should break up the performance now. Throw the actors on the ice and be done with it. But he couldn't.

He wanted to see how it ended.

* * *

The characters appearing in this story belong to Christopher Nolan, D.C. Comics, and Warner Brothers Pictures. No profit is made of their use herein.

All quotes from _The Tempest_ are taken from First Folio Facsimiles on Internet Shakespeare Editions ( . ). The author has modernized the spelling, grammar, and formatting.


	5. Act 3 Scene 1

The music faded on the air as he crept back in. He settled against a pillar and watched the actors file behind the curtain. He counted eleven of them. Must have been a group number.

Ferdinand reappeared, a log hefted over one bare shoulder. The boy took center stage and set down his load.

"There be some sports are painful."

Bane averted his eyes. Judging from the giggles and lone cat-call the majority of the audience enjoyed Ferdinand's half-naked display. He did not.

Human indignity and suffering were common sights in his line of work. No matter how many times he saw it—how thick a skin he grew—it always struck a chord. Slavery most of all. Starving, exposed people worked to death by masters or governments. Some deserved it. Many did not.

To see such sorrow mocked on stage felt wrong.

"Oh, she is ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed."

Miranda entered. He looked up.

"Alas, now pray you work not so hard. I would the lightning had burnt up those logs that you are enjoined to pile. Pray set it down, and rest you. When this burns 'twill weep for having wearied you."

Ferdinand lifter the log again, conveniently flexing his not unimpressive abdomen. The crowd was delighted. If Miranda felt the same she didn't show it. She continued imploring, he continued protesting and preening.

Miranda kept bringing up memories. Maybe he wanted to see them—a kind of manufactured flash before his eyes.

About a year after their rescue a job had gone wrong. Ra's was away when the poor operative stumbled in. It was cliché, but The League did not appreciate failure.

"If you'll sit down I'll bear your logs the while: pray give me that, I'll carry it to the pile."

"No, precious creature. I had rather crack my sinews, break my back, then you should such dishonor undergo, while I sit lazy by."

Which is why Talia decided to finish the job. She climbed out her window and shimmied down a pillar. She proceeded down the mountain and hopped a not strictly legal flight at the very not legal airport three villages away. No one was quite sure how she had crossed international borders without any identification or how she had infiltrated the head-quarters of a multi-billion dollar company. Everyone was certain that it was her knife in the CEO's back. She was not yet fourteen.

"It would become me as well as it does you."

She reappeared three days later, hiking up the mountain with her father. She had greeted the happy but perplexed Ra's in the village. On the way up she made sure to mention that everything had run smoothly in his absence. The truth came out eventually, but at the time no one corrected her story.

When Bane asked her why she said because it kept another person from suffering.

"Poor worm thou art infected. This visitation shows it."

The wizard hid in the audience to one side of the stage. He hadn't notice Prospero enter. That was mildly impressive.

"I do not know one of my sex; no woman's face remember, save from my glass, mine own."

Talia again. When they first arrived at the temple Talia had followed what few women there were around for days. As far as she knew there were only two women in the world, her mother and herself. Many years later she told him that she had thought that one of them was her mother in disguise. That if she followed them long enough one would rip off a mask, smile, and hug her.

"I would not wish any companion in the world but you."

Too many memories. Now was not the time to ask "what if?" What if Ra's had never died? What if Talia didn't seek revenge? What if he never had to leave?

"The very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service, there resides to make me slave to it, and for your sake am I this patient log-man."

Bane could not have phrased it better himself.

"To be your fellow you may deny me, but I'll be your servant whether you will or no."

As the lovers whispered their oaths and sweet nothings, he once again wondered at the effect of plays. He knew it was another decadence of Gotham, another example of the engrained corruption. Despite himself, he was enjoying it.

"So glad of this as they I cannot be, who are surprised with all; but my rejoicing at nothing can be more. I'll to my book, for yet ere supper time, must I perform much business appertaining."

Miranda and Ferdinand finished flirting and ran off, but not before fitting in a good-night kiss. Prospero watched them go with a broad smile that vanished was he took center stage. The detonator once again rested in his hand. Prospero turned it about in his palm as he spoke.

Prospero pocketed the trigger and exited. Bane let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He'd been waiting for something.

It was the first time the actress hadn't looked at him.

* * *

The characters appearing in this story belong to Christopher Nolan, D.C. Comics, and Warner Brothers Pictures. No profit is made of their use herein.

All quotes from _The Tempest_ are taken from First Folio Facsimiles on Internet Shakespeare Editions ( . ). The author has modernized the spelling, grammar, and formatting.

I apologize for the late update. I had to go back to work this week. Thank you to all of you who are reading, following, reviewing, etc. It still seems so strange to me that people are enjoying this story.


	6. Act 3 Scene 2

**Act 3 Scene 2**

"Tell not me. When the but is out we will drink water, not a drop before."

The drunken trio were back. The butler—Stephano he recalled—waved off Caliban's explanations of where to find water.

"They say there's but five upon this Isle; we are three of them, if th'other two be brained like us, the state totters."

He knew the jester referred to the prospective coup, but he couldn't help but think that if any more characters were "brained" like those three the Island would soon have the largest hangover known to man.

"As I told thee before, I am subject to a tyrant, a sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated me

of the Island."

Caliban may have believed himself the rightful owner of the Island, but in his experience things were rarely clean cut. How had Sycorax come to power? Who was there before her? The intricacies of succession always left someone unsatisfied, someone looking for revenge.

The League had been in shambles after Ra's death. Ra's had planned for Wayne to succeed him. Right up until Bruce burnt down the temple. Some said right up until his death. Talia should have been the clear choice, but she had not spoken to or seen her father for many years at that time. And if they were considering outcasts and traitors, why not add Bane himself to the short list? After a year of violent bickering the majority voice had fallen on Talia. As was right.

"Thou liest."

"Thou liest, thou jesting monkey thou: I would my valiant master would destroy thee. I do not lie."

"Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in's tale, by this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth."

"Why, I said nothing."

Ariel appeared again. Invisible as usual. The spirit mimicked Trinculo's voice as he flung wild accusations. Predictably, Caliban and Stephano turned on the innocent jester whose cries of "not guilty" went on deaf ears.

"I say by sorcery he got this Isle from me, he got it. If thy greatness will revenge it on him, (for I know thou dar'st) but this thing dare not."

Caliba knelt before Stephano. The actor crouched most of the time anyway, but his lowered head and outstretched arms were unmistakable. "Help me, and I will trade one master for another." It didn't always work out as one hoped.

Bane heard of the infighting after the fact. After it was all over an Talia sought him out. He had been minding his own business, or rather fixating on his business and ignoring what little news of The League of Shadows came his way. Freelance work was a diversion that suited him well. Job after job garnered him a reputation for excellence and an impressive network of resources. Resources that proved useful in the current endeavor.

He didn't know it at the time. Not until she showed up out of the blue. He remembered knowing it was Talia even before he saw her face. It wasn't a huge leap of logic. Very few people had a reason to be waiting in the particular corner of the particular cave he was squatting in at the time. As Barsad never tired of pointing out it was easy enough to find a hotel, or house, or anything really in the cities they frequented, but he still preferred the shadows. Places where he wouldn't be seen.

But there she was.

"Why, what did I? I did nothing."

Ariel was at it again. The fool backed into a corner, desperately protesting his innocence. The scene would have been funnier in the Gotham of old. Given the circumstances, it rang as an echo of Jonathan Crane's court room.

But he'd heard it in many other places from many other people throughout his life. "Why me? I did nothing." No one ever did anything, it seemed. Blame it on chance or fate. Personally he blamed it on inattention. People did not fully realize where their actions were taking them until they were already there. How else had he gotten here?

"Why, as I told thee, 'tis a custom with him in the afternoon to sleep: there thou mayest brain him."

The plot returned.

"Remember first to possess his books; for without them he's but a sot, as I am;

It was a good plan. Everyone was human. One just had to find the weakness. Even him. He silently counted his blessings that these actors were pointing to the wrong weakness.

"Nor hath not one spirit to command; they all do hate him as rootedly as I."

They followed him unquestioning. If he said die they died. But Barsad still kept cash and a packed bag in the back of a closet, and a plane squirreled away in a disused hangar on the north end of Gotham. "In case you change your mind" he said. He wouldn't.

"And that most deeply to consider, is the beauty of his daughter."

This had to stop. This play had no right to bring up all—this.

"Be not afeard, the Isle is full of noises, sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not."

It did it again. Ariel plucked out a tune on his guitar. Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo were frozen, ears pricked up to catch the music. And he found himself once more hanging on their words.

"And then, in dreaming, the clouds methought would open and show riches ready to drop upon me, that when I waked I cried to dream again."

Dreams. They were a wonderful source of hope. Of shelter. In The Pit he would dream that the distant ring of sunlight would come crashing down around him. As he would open his eyes to see the surface he would wake. Dreams were wonderful sources of hope, but hope was not a wonderful thing. Now he dreamed of other things.

As the actors spoke and listened and plotted he wondered what kind of city could produce these people. They knew nothing of the things they spoke of, and yet every word felt like truth. Felt right. Maybe he should have seen Gotham—really seen it—before all this began.

"Lead monster, we'll follow."

Of course they would. To the very end.

* * *

The characters appearing in this story belong to Christopher Nolan, D.C. Comics, and Warner Brothers Pictures. No profit is made of their use herein.

All quotes from _The Tempest_ are taken from First Folio Facsimiles on Internet Shakespeare Editions ( . ). The author has modernized the spelling, grammar, and formatting.


	7. Act 3 Scene 3

"By'r larkin, I can go no further, sir."

The ragged train of nobility followed their king on stage. Gonzalo collapsed and dragged himself into a roughly upright position using his cane and an audience member's knee.

"Sit down, and rest."

King Alonso gave a weak wave to call the halt. He had the look of a leader at a loss for what to do. Where to go. That was never a good sign.

"Even here I will put off my hope."

Bane had an epiphany. That was it. Alonso spoke of his son, but somehow that phrase clicked everything into place. The play, the actors, the insanity of the whole situation.

They had no hope.

"I am right glad, that he's so out of hope."

They knew they would never across that bridge. Never leave Gotham again. They would die here. That made them brave.

And a little stupid. But the two went hand in hand.

"What harmony is this? My good friends, hark."

"Marvelous sweet music."

Two actors poked their heads out of the curtains. Their faces were covered, but he was fairly certain they were the same ones playing Miranda and Ferdinand. They floated more than walked as they spread a blanket and piled it high with cans and cardboard boxes of food. Empty, no doubt. There was so little in the city.

The sprites were dressed in layers of bright orange rags thrown on over their original costumes. The letters "Blackgate Penitentiary" were stamped in several places. Bane chuckled. Spirits of the isle indeed. And "Prospero's" minions. These kids had guts, he'd give them that.

As the shades distracted the nobility, Prospero entered. The wizard rested on his haunches in the downstage corner, elbows on his knees and fingers lightly intertwined. The same position Bane was seated in. The mercenary shifted quickly and glared at his double. Prospero ignored him.

"Give us kind keepers, heavens: what were these?"

Wonder spread across Gonzalo's face. Bane understood completely. The memory of Ra's descending from the disc of sunlight that passed for heavens was forever etched in his mind. It was how he defined the word "miracle."

_"_If in Naples I should report this now, would they believe me?"

Probably not. Who would believe him? If he left and told everyone he knew that eleven hopeless people had created from nothing a play that dragged up dust-covered memories and threw them in his face. A play about revenge on an island. About lies, and love, and banishment, and a play that sounded true, who would believe him?

No one.

He'd have to be out of his mind.

"Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of our human generation..."

Careful. Kindness rarely came without a price. That was the memory that discolored the word "miracle."

"Honest lord, thou hast said well: for some of you there present; are worse than devils."

Prospero shared his bitter joke with the man behind him. The actress placed a hand on her knee and turned her head just enough to look out the corner of her eye. Bane shifted uncomfortably again. The woman moved almost exactly like him. Was she stalking him? Was she crazy?

That was a stupid question. Of course, she was crazy.

"I will stand to, and feed, although my last, no matter, since I feel the best is past."

They were all crazy. They were face to face with death and reveling in it. They were laughing at their last meal, and skipping to the gallows. The whole spectacle was a long suicide note. Addressed to him.

But, if this was the end, why not? His death was just as certain, and he was sitting watching a play.

"You are three men of sin, whom destiny the never surfeited sea hath caused to belch up you, and on this island."

The Blackgate sprites whisked away the food as the center curtains opened. Ariel swept on. He too had added a layer to his costume: a tattered judge's robe. A hangman's noose dangled from his neck. Bane laughed out loud, as did several of the audience. Truly these actors knew no bounds.

He liked the line, too. So appropriate to Gotham. The isle of sin they had all been cast upon.

"I have made you mad."

Ariel tossed dust into the faces of the cowering nobility. Most likely it was flour thrown dramatically, but it made convincing fear toxin.

"And even with such like valor men hang, and drown their proper selves."

Bane's brow furrowed. The play needled his conscience again. There were some—few and far between though they were—who entered the courtroom, stood before the bench, and when asked to choose stared silently and walked out. They walked behind the piled wreckage that served as a bench and out onto the ice. Uncaring.

It was a different kind of hopelessness.

"But remember—for that's my business to you—that you three from Milan did supplant good Prospero."

He shook off his thoughts. He had to remember the mission. Remember what they did and why it was necessary. Gotham killed Ra's, nearly destroyed The League. It was a city filled with lies and corruption. It deserved everything that had happened.

"The powers, delaying, not forgetting,"

Nothing was forgotten. That was Selina Kyle's complaint against the world.

How true it was.

Revenge required a long memory. It was a natural force that drove the world onward in cycle after cycle. The rise, fall, and rise again that was humanity's pulse. It was slow.

Bruce waited years before returning to Gotham and punishing those that had destroyed his family. The hero claimed he worked for justice, but the first man he targeted was Carmine Falcone. His parent's murderer's boss.

Talia waited years before enacting the business they were now about. She orchestrated everything to hurt Wayne the most. Her father's murderer. It was a cycle.

And he waited years in exile before finally hearing the news of Ra's' death. And when he heard he smiled.

"Have incensed the seas, and shores; yea, all the creatures against your peace."

His eyes wandered to Prospero again and found him mouthing Ariel's words in unison with his servant. The actress held his gaze. She did not smile this time. This time her face was set in a fury and a pain so intense that Bane was the first to look away.

It was a challenge. A challenge to him to do something. Threaten her, stop her, hurt her, kill her, anything. A challenge he knew he couldn't meet.

Sure, he could hurt her. Could kill her. But nothing he did would matter. There was nothing to lose. Without hope, and without fear, she did not care.

"Pronounce by me lingering perdition, worse than any death can be at once."

Then they had Prospero's permission to die.

"Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls upon your heads, is nothing but hearts-sorrow, and a clear life ensuing."

All of it was for balance. It was for balance. Not revenge. Revenge was a side note. Who was he kidding? It was all about revenge.

No.

Either way it didn't matter. Talia had built in the ending. In three months' time the cycle would stop. The wheel would grind to a halt. Every single member of The League of Shadows was in Gotham. Along with an unstable nuclear device. It would all be over.

Talia loved her father. But not enough to ensure his eternal legacy.

"Bravely the figure of this harpy, hast thou performed, my Ariel."

Prospero rose in one fluid movement. He threaded his way through the paralyzed nobles and clapped his servant on the shoulder, dismissing him through the curtains.

"My high charms work, and these, mine enemies, are all knit up in their distractions. They now are in my power."

The wizard swept his eyes over the stage and then the crowd before pausing once more on Bane. The fury was gone. Replaced with sadness. And apology. And maybe pity.

And a question. "Are you happy?" "Is this what you wanted?"

"And in these fits, I leave them, while I visit young Ferdinand"

Prospero turned to go. His steps faltered. Then he straightened and strode out.

Bane remembered. When he left Bruce Wayne in his cell he had not thought about the suffering in store for his enemy. He had thought on Talia, and looked forward to seeing her face once again.

"I'th name of something holy, sir, why stand you in this strange stare?"

The King and his company stirred. Gonzalo was the first to speak. He had not been showered in flour and, unlike his compatriots, was in full possession of his wits. The old lord looked first to his king.

"O, it is monstrous! Monstrous!"

Who grabbed him and forced him to the ground, ranting of wind and thunder and Prospero.

Bane tensed, preparing to rush to Gonzalo's aid. He stopped himself. It was fake. Those were actors and they were pretending.

Still, he didn't fully relax until Alonso, Sebastian, and Antonio had rushed off stage screaming.

"All three of them are desperate: their great guilt—like poison given to work a great time after—now 'gins to bite the spirits."

They deserved it. They were guilty and now they paid for their treachery. Justice and revenge were one and the same.

"I do beseech you—that are of suppler joints—follow them swiftly, and hinder them from what this ecstasy may now provoke them to."

Gonzalo pleaded with a woman in the front row for help. She sat still for a moment then extended a hand to the lord, still sprawled where his king had left him. He took it gratefully and labored to stand. When he was finally upright he started for the exit still holding the woman's hand. She pulled back. He dropped her hand dismayed.

Then turned and hurried to care for the villains.

Of all the play's surprises this was the greatest. And the greatest falsehood. Such compassion—unwavering and unquestioning – was a fairytale.

* * *

The characters appearing in this story belong to Christopher Nolan, D.C. Comics, and Warner Brothers Pictures. No profit is made of their use herein.

All quotes from _The Tempest_ are taken from First Folio Facsimiles on Internet Shakespeare Editions ( . ). The author has modernized the spelling, grammar, and formatting.


	8. Act 4 Scene 1

"If I have too austerely punished you, your compensation makes amends,"

Ferdinand took the stage first. Bane gave silent thanks that the boy had recovered his shirt. Miranda and Prospero followed hand in hand.

"I have given you here, a third of mine own life, or that for which I live."

Prospero extended his empty hand to the newly freed prince.

He liked that line as well, though it puzzled him. It was true that people lived for other people. Humans constructed their existence around family or friends or loves. But it rang false coming from Prospero.

The old man loved his daughter, Bane was sure of that. But his actions were rooted in personal vengeance. That was the most unbelievable part of the character. Ignoring, of course, that he was a wizard on a somehow undiscovered island in the Mediterranean.

Vengeance was not entirely personal. It stemmed from relationships, care, and concern for others. Harvey Dent, for example, snapped after Rachel Dawes died. Talia began her crusade after her father died. The list went on and on, but he could not think of a solely personal revenge.

"Then, as my guest, and thine own acquisition worthily purchased, take my daughter. But…"

Prospero joined the lover's hands and clasped them between his own. Ferdinand and Miranda tugged lightly at his grasp, but Prospero did not let go. Instead he took a breath and spoke again.

"If thou dost break her virgin-knot, before all sanctimonious ceremonies may with full and holy right, be ministered, no sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall to make this contract grow; but barren hate, sour-eyed disdain, and discord shall bestrew the union of your bed"

Prospero released them. Ferdinand's eyes were wide and Miranda sported the deepest blush Bane had ever seen. He went slightly pink himself.

"The strongest suggestion our worser genius can, shall never melt mine honor into lust,"

It was as good a response as any, he supposed. Personally he would have gone with "that's none of your business, old man."

"Fairly spoke. Sit then, and talk with her,"

Prospero hit "talk" far harder than was strictly necessary but Miranda and Ferdinand complied. They settled comfortably downstage leaving very slight room for the Holy Spirit.

"What would my potent master? Here I am."

_"_Thou, and thy meaner fellows, your last service did worthily perform: and I must use you in such another trick."

He would not describe the last service as "worthy." "Outrageous," "scandalous," and "shameless" were closer to the mark.

And now they were in for a repeat performance. He wondered who would come on next. Surely they were running out of public figures.

"Be more abstemious, or else good night your vow."

"I warrant you, sir, the white cold virgin snow upon my heart abates the ardor of my liver."

He wished Prospero would drop the subject. Ferdinand's eloquent parries were almost worth it. He liked the image of a snow covered heart. Though he wasn't sure what livers had to do with anything.

The curtains stirred. Ariel entered and whispered to Prospero. Bane silently ticked off a list of possible "spirits." The GCPD. Commissioner Gordon. Harvey Dent.

"No tongue: all eyes: be silent."

He braced himself.

"Ceres, most bounteous lady,"

He blinked. He didn't get it.

"The Queen of the Sky, whose watery arch and messenger am I, bids thee leave these, and with her sovereign grace, here on this grass-plot, in this very place to come, and sport: her peacocks fly amain. Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain."

Stephano – or the actor playing him – wore a wig and an obviously stuffed floor-length evening gown. He was supposed to be Iris. Bane did a quick tally. There were two actresses backstage – Gonzalo and Trinculo. Why weren't they playing Iris?

"Hail, many-colored messenger, that ne're dost disobey the wife of Jupiter."

Alonso had traded his original costume for women's formal wear. His was covered in fake flowers.

What were they going for? Was there a reference he was missing? What did it mean?

"Why hath thy queen summoned me hither, to this short grassed green?"

"A contract of true love, to celebrate."

True love? After one day? He doubted it.

Then again, Miranda was smiling and Ferdinand watched her more than the bizarre parade of deities. Perhaps it was just the acting, but for a second he could believe it.

"Great Juno comes, I know her by her gait."

"How does my bounteous sister? Go with me to bless this twain, that they may prosperous be, and honored in their issue."

Caliban entered through the center in a flurry of curtains. He sported a platinum wig with a tiara nestled in its curls. The trio began a song showering blessings upon the happy couple.

It was utter nonsense. And funny. And defiant.

He had seen the remnants of temples to these goddesses—Iris, Ceres, and Juno. Before his eyes three boys in cast-off finery counterfeited three long dead idols. And they did it with joy.

He glanced at the audience and saw smiles. On every face. More than he'd seen in a long time. The faded grandeur was enough. In that moment, the actors may as well have been goddesses.

"May I be bold to think these spirits?"

_"_Spirits, which by mine art I have from their confines called to enact my present fancies."

"Let me live here ever, so rare a wondred father and a wise makes this place paradise."

It was a paradise. Compared to the rest of life—the life he'd given them—this was miraculous. Then something happened. Ferdinand almost turned. Almost looked at him. He stopped and looked back to Prospero. They held each other's gazes for a split second. Apprehension flickered across Ferdinand's face as he searched Prospero's. Whatever he was looking for—strength, reassurance, something—he must have found it and in the blink of an eye he was back to cuddling Miranda.

That wasn't part of the play. That was the actors underneath. He could feel it. Bane looked at Ferdinand again. His grey-blue eyes, his gentle face which held the tiniest bit of steel. He looked familiar. But he couldn't remember.

What had he said? So rare a wondred father and a wise makes this place paradise…

"Sweet now, silence: Juno and Ceres whisper seriously."

Who cared? He'd let them finish the show and round up the actors after. He'd figure it out then.

Prospero pulled his attention back to the scene. The wizard—or the actress, or both—was a fount of distraction. This time his weapon was puns. The lovers shared a groan with the audience as he said "Juno and Ceres whisper _cere-_ously."

"Come temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate a contract of true love. Be not too late."

And then they were all on stage. Gonzalo and Trinculo as nymphs. Antonio and Sebastian as farmers or some sort. Miranda and Ferdinand danced front and center. Ariel strummed a frenzied tune on his guitar. Prospero and Juno-Caliban tangoed in a corner. Iris-Stephano and Ceres-Alonso pulled audience members from their seats to join the delirium.

The whole crowd danced, and swayed, and clapped, and sang, and smiled. It was bigger than the beginning tempest. There were more colors, more sounds, and more life.

This wasn't about commenting or teasing or sending a message. That would have been preaching to the choir. Everyone was already on board. It was the end and they were going out with a bang.

And then it stopped.

"I had forgot that foul conspiracy of the beast Caliban and his confederates"

The actors froze. Several flustered audience members shuffled back to their seats. Prospero came to the fore.

Prospero waved the trigger like a wand. The actors unfroze, gathered themselves, and left. All expect Ferdinand and Miranda who simply stood and stared.

They didn't understand, but he did. There was work to do. Plans and promises.

In the stillness he remembered that all those people—those smiling, happy people—would kill him if they could.

"Never till this day saw I him touched with anger, so distempered."

Or had she never seen it so close up? He had seen Ra's' anger, but never thought to see it turned on him. He had never so much as frowned at Talia, but the day she reappeared he raged. He had built anew, moved on. But he hadn't moved on enough, and in the end she won.

"You do look, my son, in a moved sort, as if you were dismayed. Be cheerful sir."

Prospero remembered where he was and who was with him. He pocketed the detonator and straightened his coat. He turned to Ferdinand then faltered and struggled for the right words. The right apology. The right explanation.

"Our revels now are ended. These our actors (as I foretold you) were all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air."

Prospero was only half speaking of the god and nymphs and spirits. No one looked at him or smiled or winked, but Bane could tell the other half was from the players to him. They were the spirits. And soon they would fade.

"And like the baseless fabric of this vision—the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself—yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve. And like this insubstantial pageant faded leave not a rack behind."

Gotham's shining skyscrapers, wide parks, and busy harbors would be wiped from the face of the Earth. It was what he wanted. What Talia wanted.

"We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep."

But it would have happened without them. Wait long enough and everything will fade. Today or tomorrow. Warm in bed at ninety, or on the ice at twenty: it didn't matter. Not to them. Not anymore.

"Sir, I am vexed, bear with my weakness, my old brain is troubled."

Prospero took a shaky breath and rubbed his forehead. For the first time the omnipotent wizard seemed truly lost. It made Bane uneasy. He wanted to help, but had no idea what to do.

Then he realized what the rest of the audience was seeing. They saw an actress, in his likeness, lamenting the transience of existence and the dying splendor of their city. The actress had created a vision of him wracked with pity and regret. That wasn't him. It wasn't.

"Be not disturbed with my infirmity. If you be pleased, retire into my cell, and there repose, a turn or two, I'll walk to still my beating mind."

Prospero forced a smile and ushered his daughter and son-in-law to the curtains.

Beating mind. He liked that. That was what the play felt like. Every moment something new, a memory, a musing, an objection. It was endless, wonderful, and terrifying. Plays—or at least this play—were pure thought.

It was dangerous. Not just for what it told the attentive crowd, but for what it did to him. It—he—questioned so much. These few hours would haunt him long after they ended.

"We wish your peace."

They meant him. Having shown that they no longer cared, that he couldn't touch them or scare them, that they would enjoy what they had no matter what that was, they tipped their hats and said "nothing personal." It wasn't quite forgiveness. It was more an honest "nice try."

"Spirit, we must prepare to meet with Caliban."

"Aye, my commander, when I presented Ceres I thought to have told thee of it, but I feared lest I might anger thee."

So couldn't they stop now? The message had been received. But they kept going dragging more and more unwanted thoughts into his head. Ariel. Barsad.

He knew his followers feared him, even his lieutenant. But Barsad never hesitated, never failed him. Now he didn't so much hesitate as disappear. He'd wander the city for hours. As he'd proved so many times to Bane, if he did not want to be found he was not going to be found. Bane knew the other man would never betray him—an even if he did he couldn't do much. But it was sad to see someone he'd known for so long drifting away.

Prospero dismissed Ariel into the cave.

"A devil, a born devil, on whose nature nurture can never stick. On whom my pains humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost,"

That sounded like Gotham. It was not a thing to mourn or pity. It was inherently flawed.

Whatever the plan it involved fine clothing. Ariel reappeared loaded down with fur coats, silk robes, and a few tuxedo jackets. He hung them on the audience along the left side, and waited for Stephan, Trinculo, and Caliban to stumble on.

"To lose our bottles in the pool."

"There is not only disgrace and dishonor in that, monster, but an infinite loss."

Barsad had started drinking again. The lingering scent of alcohol followed him on his walks.

"This is the mouth of the cell. No noise, and enter. Do that good mischief, which may make this island thine own forever."

It could be, he supposed. If he convinced Talia they could change the plan. Find another way. Stay in Gotham and rule it.

But so many others had tried. They declared their reigns in blazing terms and were consumed by the fire. Jonathan Crane's Scarecrow persona. The Joker. Even, in his own way, Commissioner Gordon and the Dent Act.

It wasn't worth it.

"O king Stephano, O peer, O worthy Stephano, look what a wardrobe here is for thee."

"Let it alone, thou fool, it is but trash."

Trinculo had finally noticed the garments lying on the shoulders of the audience. Ignoring Caliban, the butler and the fool began trying on as many as they could.

It is but trash. How true. The city and the play both were trash. Alluring and enthralling trash, but trash nonetheless.

So why was he still watching?

"Let them be hunted soundly."

What happened next was ludicrous even for the circumstances. The actors backstage entered as a pack, on all fours, and chased Caliban, Trinculo, and Stephano off stage. They were wearing dog's ears. Apparently they were magical hounds Prospero conjured to torment his would be attackers.

As the barking and the laughter died down, Prospero and Ariel were left alone once more.

"At this hour lies at my mercy all mine enemies. Shortly shall all my labors end, and thou shalt have the air at freedom. For a little follow, and do me service."

That was the third time Prospero had said that. Bountiful fortune hath mine enemies brought to this shore. They are now in my power. After two days I will discharge thee.

Who was he trying to convince?

* * *

The characters appearing in this story belong to Christopher Nolan, D.C. Comics, and Warner Brothers Pictures. No profit is made of their use herein.

All quotes from _The Tempest_ are taken from First Folio Facsimiles on Internet Shakespeare Editions ( . ). The author has modernized the spelling, grammar, and formatting.

Sorry for the long wait. I've just started my semester abroad. We're almost to the end now.


	9. Act 5 Scene 1

"Now does my project gather to a head: my charms crack not: my spirits obey, and time goes upright with his carriage. How's the day?"

"On the sixth hour, at which time, my lord, you said our work should cease."

He hoped it would cease soon. Prospero and Ariel had left and seemingly turned right around and come back on. He wasn't sure if time had passed, or the space had changed, or if the author was simply lazy.

He did know that it was getting late. The evening sun stenciled the windows on the floor. The divide between the light and shadows was so sharp he felt he could have touched it, but he sat still and watched the dust motes wink in and out of existence.

"They cannot budge till your release. The King, his brother, and yours abide all three distracted."

Ariel explained the royal's predicament as another memory came knocking. Bruce Wayne again. In his cell. In The Pit. Suffering.

Like he had.

He pushed that thought away.

"Him that you termed, sir, the good old lord Gonzalo, his tears runs down his beard like winter's drops from eaves of reeds."

Many people mourned the loss of Batman. The chalk bats on the city's walls and roofs and sidewalks attested to that. He imagined whatever friends Wayne had also mourned. He knew of only one person who wept. Selina Kyle.

She did it privately and quietly. She ruled a neighborhood. She could hardly afford to be in his bad books. Still, she couldn't keep her guard up all the time. He gave her her privacy. Her tears mattered little. And it would have felt spiteful to punish her.

"Your charm so strongly works 'em that if you now beheld them, your affections would become tender."

Tender affections. When was the last time he had those? Decades ago—No. Wait.

Two hours ago.

On his way to the play.

He saw a child by the park. He was clawing at the ground collecting acorns. The month before the nuts had been plentiful enough, but as winter came nearer they became scarcer. Any who depended on them for food starved. The boy was not far from joining his peers.

He had not done anything, just kept walking. He knew things like that would happen. People would die, and children were people. He hadn't really imagined it though. Not really.

"Dost thou think so, spirit?"

"Mine would, sir, were I human."

Everything stopped. He saw people holding their breaths, leaning forward, staring. Everything hung on what Prospero did next. He didn't know why, but everyone else in the audience seemed very sure that the world turned on Prospero's words.

It made sense. Prospero sought revenge. Ariel helped Prospero. That was the plot. Pity was not a part of the plot. It didn't belong. But there it was. And no one knew what to do with it.

That wasn't entirely true. Miranda had pity. From the start she had compassion for everyone. But she wasn't there.

"And mine shall. Hast thou (which art but air) a touch, a feeling of their afflictions, and shall not myself, one of their kind, that relish all as sharply, passion as they, be kindlier moved then thou art?"

Bane heard, saw, and felt the room relax.

There it was. Compassion. It came so abruptly. It felt like a splash of water to the face, or spring pushing through snow, or lightening.

But it was so simple. Anyone could choose at any time to do anything. Prospero chose to forgive. It was natural and unnatural all at once. He found himself wondering if he could do that. If he could gather his mess, turn his back, and leave Gotham.

No. Of course he couldn't. But he wondered all the same.

How could they do that? How could these actors seek vengeance one minute and forgiveness the next and still pull an audience along behind them? It wasn't real. They hadn't experienced any of this. But if he didn't remind himself of that constantly the truth would slip away and the play would slip in to replace it.

And now memory forced its way into the mix. The memory of a small child in a dark and empty place.

"The rarer Action is in virtue, than in vengeance."

The actress looked him right in the eye. No passion this time or apology. Just a statement.

And he believed. He believed in vengeance and forgiveness, in hatred and pity.

He could. He was capable of everything Prospero did. He was Prospero. It was his choice.

"Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves."

The silence brought Bane back to the room. He could have heard a pin drop if a pin had dared to drop though the heaviness.

Prospero was alone on stage once more. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the detonator. He held it out and began to cast his spell.

"By whose aid (weak masters though ye be) I have bedimmed the noon-tide sun, called forth the mutinous winds, and twixt the green sea, and the azured vault set roaring war."

Destroyed the government. Laid low the police. Taken away electricity, food, peace. Taken their world.

And they had helped. Gotham was the true source of all of it. After all, what was a wizard without his spirits?

"But this rough magic I here abjure! I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper then did ever plummet sound I'll drown my book."

Pieces of the detonator went flying. Prospero tore it open flinging the batteries and empty shell across the stage. That was it. No more magic.

If only it were that easy.

Bane supposed he could. He could get the trigger from Talia, put the bomb back, and let whatever happened happen. But it wouldn't make things right. Gotham couldn't go back to the way it was. Perhaps with time, but the deep scares he gave city with would never fade. Things had gone too far.

Still one question nagged at the corner of his mind: did that diminish the act? Did that mean he should not try?

"The charm dissolves apace, and as the morning steals upon the night (melting the darkness) so their rising senses begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle their clearer reason."

The charmed nobility shuffled once more onto the stage. Prospero walked among them unseen, staring at the faces of agony and sorrow.

"As the morning steals upon the night." What did that remind him of? Oh yes. Harvey Dent. If Commissioner Gordon's story was anything to go on, Harvey Dent the day before he became Two Face. The lawyer had made a speech that day. "The night is darkest just before the dawn."

He must have seen the play as well.

"You, brother mine, that entertain ambition, expelled remorse, and nature, whom, with Sebastian (whose inward pinches therefore are most strong) would here have killed your king."

The corruption, ambition, decadence, lethargy, dirt, crime, lies all piled into a mass irredeemable and crying out to be destroyed. Beyond forgiveness.

"I do forgive thee."

Unless forgiveness was possible.

"Unnatural though thou art."

Redemption and forgiveness were two different things. Gotham was and always would be corrupt. That much was certain. But forgiveness. It may have deserved forgiveness. And it was his to grant.

"All torment, trouble, wonder, and amazement inhabits here. Some heavenly power guide us out of this fearful country."

Gonzalo was the first to come to his senses. He rushed to his still blinking king and searched his face for some sign of sanity.

Damn this play. It was always saying one thing and meaning another. Not exactly lies, but not exactly truth. Gonzalo spoke to whatever powers-that-be he believed in saying: guide us off this island. Bane heard: guide us out of chaos and death and destruction. Guide us out of your Gotham. Guide us home.

He could not do that. He would not do that.

"Behold, sir King, the wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero. For more assurance that a living prince does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body, and to thee, and thy company, I bid a hearty welcome."

Bane quickly stifled a laugh. No one else was laughing, but he found it hilarious. Two hours of spells, invisibility, and hiding and Prospero chose that moment to introduce himself. The wizard had been on the island too long.

"Irreparable is the loss, and patience says, it is past her cure."

"I rather think you have not sought her help, of whose soft grace for the like loss, I have her sovereign aid."

Introductions, explanations, and apologies were exchanged on stage. Bane had been able to follow it all up until that point.

Ferdinand was telling Prospero about his son's death. A death, Bane thought, that had not actually happened, Prospero already knew about, and had been explained to the audience countless times before.

Setting all that aside, what should have been a straightforward revelation was needlessly complicated by Prospero. He should have known it would not be simple. When did Prospero ever do things simply?

The wizard claimed that his daughter had also drowned in the storm.

Bane had no idea where any of this was going.

"I have lost my daughter."

"A daughter? Oh heavens, that they were living both in Naples the king and queen there. When did you lose your daughter?"

"In this last tempest."

All the life seemed to go out of Prospero. His shoulders slumped and his eyes went to the floor. Bane watched the actress' mouth twitch, no longer sure if she was pretending.

No. This was real. She'd lost someone. He'd taken someone from her.

"I will requite you with as good a thing. At least bring forth a wonder."

And in return she gave him this play.

Or maybe she gave it to herself. The whole thing was a lesson in forgiveness. Didn't she have as much reason for revenge as he? Whoever he had taken from her, didn't they deserve justice? Well, not justice.

It was a lesson for both of them. Prospero-all the other actors-chose to forgive. To reject violence and anarchy, and to put on a play instead.

"O wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here? How beauteous mankind is? O, brave new world that has such people in it."

"'Tis new to thee."

At long last Prospero revealed the lovers. They were playing chess in his cave. The King cried, Gonzalo nearly fainted, Ferdinand embraced his father, and Miranda stared in absolute awe at humanity.

He could not tear his eyes from Miranda. She beamed amazement and happiness. He knew that look. He had worn it once. The first day after his rescue from The Pit. The world was beautiful and perfect.

He felt that way again now. Who were these actors? Barely more than children, yet this was their response destruction. Calm yet rejoicing, thinking to the way to the end. He supposed it was a child's response. Still it felt like so much more. How could Gotham have produced such people? And all the people sitting and listening? Risking their lives to see this miracle.

He should have seen the city before. Should have known it.

"The best news is, that we have safely found our King, and company. The next_, _our ship, which but three glasses since we gave out split, is tight, and yare, and bravely rigged, as when we first put out to sea."

The actor playing Caliban came on dressed as a sailor. It took a moment for Bane to remember the first scene, it seemed so long ago. Caliban, as the sailor, explained that nothing had actually happened to the ship. Bane wondered what the purpose of the storm was if not to wreck the ship. Caliban/sailor finished his report and beat a hasty retreat for backstage. No doubt to change back into Caliban.

He saw some of the sailor's confusion in himself. The play had turned everything on its head. He wasn't thinking straight. He couldn't give up. Gotham did not deserve it. And yet…

Perhaps the spell would end soon. The actors would leave and his world would right itself.

He didn't hold much hope.

"Sir, all this service have I done since I went."

"My tricksey spirit."

Ariel was once again at Prospero's shoulder. The actor did not move like Barsad. Everything else was the same. Barsad was not a magical spirit, but the two shared a certain skill for illusion. Things could be in shambles one minute and fine the next depending on Barsad's spin. Ariel didn't so much spin as alter reality, but the comparison held.

"These are not natural events, they strengthen from strange to stranger."

He agreed with Alonso. None of it was natural. These people. This thing. Yet there it was. Playing out before him regardless of his presence. Regardless of the storm.

"There are yet missing of your company some few odd lads that you remember not."

Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo. One more plot to tie up.

"These three have robbed me, and this demi-devil (for he's a bastard one) had plotted with them to take my life. Two of these fellows, you must know and own. This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine"

Prospero explained the trio's ill-fated plot, fighting for attention with belches and drunk jokes. The audience laughed. Bane frowned.

By the time Prosper got around to "thing of darkness" no one was laughing. The statement jarred harshly with the earlier merciful sentiments. Apparently all humans deserved mercy, but not monsters.

Not him.

"I'll be wise hereafter, and seek for grace. What a thrice double ass was I to take this drunkard for a god? And worship this dull fool?"

Caliban pulled off Stephano and Trinculo by their ears.

He deserved better than that, Bane thought. He deserved more than fleeting acknowledgement and a hasty chastisement. He had wronged Miranda. He was punished for it, enslaved and beaten. Caliban's rebellion was partly Prospero's fault. He should acknowledge that too. He should free Caliban. Explicitly. Not shuffle him offstage to herd drunkards. Prospero was leaving the island, what further use could he possibly have for Caliban?

But that wasn't the story. And for once it reflected real life. Some people did not get happiness.

"I long to hear the story of your life, which must take the ear strangely."

Alonso, so long the silent figure of mourning, was full of sayings. Strange life indeed. How had they gotten there, all these people? How had he gotten there? All of them gathered together on this tiny island to watch a play.

"I'll deliver all. And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales, and sail so expeditious that shall catch your royal fleet far off. My Ariel, chick, that is thy charge, then to the elements be free, and fare thou well."

A manic grin spread across Ariel's face. Then he was gone. Vanished behind the curtains never to be seen again.

"Please you draw near."

And then they were all leaving. The king, the prince, the usurper, the conspirator, the old man, and Miranda.

It was over.

Until Prospero turned around.

* * *

The characters appearing in this story belong to Christopher Nolan, D.C. Comics, and Warner Brothers Pictures. No profit is made of their use herein.

All quotes from _The Tempest_ are taken from First Folio Facsimiles on Internet Shakespeare Editions.. The author has modernized the spelling, grammar, and formatting.

Again, sorry for the wait. Thank you for reading. One scene left.


	10. Epilogue

"Now my charms are all o're-thrown, and what strength I have's mine own."

Prospero lingered at center stage. Or rather the actress lingered. She stood differently, her shoulders slightly caved and her weight on one hip. She wasn't him anymore.

She spoke to the audience. There was no one else to speak to. But her eyes never strayed far from his corner.

She wanted to say a personal good-bye, he supposed.

"Which is most faint: now 'tis true I mu_s_t be here confined by you,"

It was true. No matter what this play, these actors, this girl did the choice to listen was his. The choice to leave was his. The choice to have them all executed was his.

"Or sent to Naples,"

The actress gestured to the curtains. She suppressed a nervous laugh, licked her lips, and looked back up. She was pleading with him. The play had a happy ending. Now the question was, would she?

"Let me not since I have my dukedom got, and pardoned the deceiver, dwell in this bare island, by your spell,"

Would he let them live? All of them, not just the players, but the whole island? Could he be Prospero?

No. It was absurd.

Some part of him wanted to.

No.

"But relea_s_e me from my bands with the help of your good hands: gentle breath of yours, my sails must fill, or else my project fails,"

She did this for him. About him. Now it was his to do with as he willed.

If only he could figure out what he willed.

"Which was to please:"

She had meant well. He was sure she had meant well. But good intentions did not justify mercy.

"Now I want spirits to enforce: art to enchant, and my ending is despair,"

All her power was gone. The illusion, the thoughts, and the confusion was ending. The play was ending.

"Unless I be relieved by prayer"

He quirked an eyebrow. She hadn't struck him as the religious type.

She clasped her hands in front of her lightly. Then it dawned on him. She meant applause.

"Which pierces so, that it assaults mercy itself, and frees all faults."

She didn't even pretend to look at anyone else. Just him. She stood at his mercy asking quietly for forgiveness.

No.

Maybe.

"As you from crimes would pardoned be, let your indulgence set me free."

'Forgive me, as I have forgiven you.'

She held his gaze a moment longer. Then her head dropped.

The clapping began. He couldn't.

He rushed out. Partly to avoid detection, partly to clear his head, and partly to get as far as he could from that place. That girl.

He marched up the block, willing himself not to break into a flat out run.

He had just reached the corner when he heard her.

"Hey!"

He turned to see Prospero sprinting up the sidewalk. Her dark hair was down, disheveled and frizzing in the autumn damp. Other than that she was still in costume.

She stopped in front of him. Breathing hard and trembling a little. He wasn't sure if she was afraid or just out of breath. Maybe both.

She smiled and asked, "What did you think of the show?"

* * *

The characters appearing in this story belong to Christopher Nolan, D.C. Comics, and Warner Brothers Pictures. No profit is made of their use herein.

All quotes from _The Tempest_ are taken from First Folio Facsimiles on Internet Shakespeare Editions.. The author has modernized the spelling, grammar, and formatting.

So that's the end. Thank you for, and thank you very very much for any and all feed-back.

I do have some idea of the story behind the actors, but I think i want to leave it here. If you have an questions, complaints, or pointers please do not hesitate to review.


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